


Mothman - An Addendum

by ziparumpazoo



Category: Fringe
Genre: Amberverse, F/M, Missing Scene, Remix, fingekinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziparumpazoo/pseuds/ziparumpazoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mothman's on the loose and Lincoln's short a couple of partners. Olivia steps in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mothman - An Addendum

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Put your quarter down on me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/267218) by [monanotlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa). 



It’s cold when Lincoln pulls to a stop at the end of the driveway. The farmhouse is off to the left by maybe two hundred paces, and behind it, the barn and hay loft, rumored nesting place of the Mothman. Fog drifts past the car’s headlights in ghostly tendrils, covers the road, and veils the almost-full moon. Olivia can’t help the small puff of a laugh that escapes when she reaches for the passenger seatbelt release.

“Pretty cliché, huh?” Lincoln reaches up between them to shut off the dome light switch before they open the doors. “Check your door handle for a hook when you get out.”

“Or ghostly handprints on the bumper,” she throws back as she unholsters her gun and meets him in front of the car. The night is eerily silent, except for the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling behind them. Olivia looks at him, fighting the smile that pulls at the corner of her mouth. Lincoln stares back and their breath rises between them in pale frozen plumes.

And then he laughs. “When did those campfire stories stop being scary?”

“Sometime right around joining Fringe Division? Bigfoot ruined all my illusions.”

“That would do it. I can’t believe you lasted that long.”

“Or maybe more like when I was six.” The thought sobers her. Monsters don’t always live in ghost stories, after all. But she pushes the thought away and ignores the way Lincoln tilts his head but leaves the question unspoken. She says, “So what do we know about this guy?”

“Not much. Thirty-two sightings of a man roughly matching the description of Boris Karloff, seen flying off bridges, swooping from trees, and mauling livestock. Farnsworth’s localized the epicenter of the sightings to this property, registered to one H. Clerval, no other name given.”

Olivia frowns. “So we’re looking for a flying version of Frankenstein?”

“Frankenstein?” Lincoln checks the safety on his own weapon and looks up at her. His forehead creases. “More like a vampire, from the reports.”

“You said ‘Karloff’, though.”

“Yeah. He played Dracula in the original.”

“Ah,” she says. It’s a question of semantics, then, not witness statements. “It was Lugosi on my side.”

“Not a brain-dead monster. Our suspect is a flying, cow-loving vampire, by all reports.”

“Okay, so something like Dracula.” She blows on her bare hands to warm them and wishes she’d brought a hat. “Close enough.”

They make their way up the driveway, Olivia in the lead, Lincoln three steps behind. Just enough space between them for him to watch her back. Their footsteps crunch loudly on the frozen gravel of the driveway and Olivia stops, listens to the wind rustling the treetops. She feels the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise to attention and freezes.

They’re being watched.

The feeling, atavistic in nature, buzzes like an electric current from the base of her skull; a trickle-charge down the back of her neck that has her completely on edge. Lincoln touches the back of her hand, and she starts. She’s usually not this jumpy. Blame it on the fog and the night air and the prospect of meeting their prey, or maybe just the anticipation of more than Lincoln’s ungloved hand on her skin once the creature’s been caught and all is said and done. Whichever, it’s been a long time since she’s felt this kind of thrill; her heart thrumming in her chest, palms sweaty against the grip of her gun. She feels a certain vitality that’s been missing for so long.

She feels alive.

His fingers are warm against the inside of her wrist. He inclines his head slightly toward the damp grass at the edge of the driveway. She follows him, crouched slightly and quiet now, their progress masked by the summer’s gone-to-seed rye grass and thick sponge moss.

They’re maybe ten feet from the back of the barn, crouched under the cover of a canopy of spruce. The sky had started to shift from deep black to the more subtle hues of navy and purple. There’s a hint of dawn just beyond the horizon.

“Do you hear that?” Lincoln whispers in her ear, so close she can feel his lips move. She listens and notices that he’s holding his breath, because he hasn’t yet moved out of her space.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly.”

“He’s here.” It’s a statement, not a guess. That feeling of being watched is stronger now, an itch between her shoulder blades she can’t quite reach to scratch.

And then, a rustle from above. A whisper like a sheet of newsprint blown through the air. Lincoln’s eyes track north and he freezes.

Olivia follows, draws her piece slowly, and raises it. Their prey is hanging, bat-like, right there above them.

In the split second before she gets a shot off, it strikes. It dive-bombs Lincoln, hissing and shrieking like a missile as it cuts through the frozen air. Lincoln’s thrown back hard. His head knocks against a tree trunk with a solid ‘tock’ and he drops his gun on impact. There’s no time to think. The creature is moving fast, thrashing its way through the underbrush toward him again. Olivia tightens her grip on her gun and takes off after it.

“Hey!” she yells, but the creatures doesn’t startle. Three more strides and she’s within arm’s reach. She raises her gun again and brings it down, butt-first across the back of the thing’s head. It pauses, turns in horror-movie slow motion and hisses again. Its eyes, oversized for its tiny head, bulge as it draws back and jabs a spindly wing tip towards her. The threat is clear.

Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia sees Lincoln shake off the disorientation, but he’s not back in the game yet. He needs a distraction.

She cocks her gun, and this time the creature freezes at the sharp click. The light is getting softer, but it’s still not bright enough to see anything more than the dark shape as it raises its wings and prepares to pounce at Lincoln again.

Olivia squeezes the trigger.

The creature shrieks, turns, and now it’s coming after her. Exactly as she’d hoped. She makes a beeline for the open field, giving it the advantage of the air, but she won’t get tripped by the underbrush clawing at her ankles. She can hear it close behind her. Very close. And from farther back, Lincoln calling her name. No time to glance over her shoulder, she pistons her legs into the frozen ground, pushing her farther out into the open. She can feel it behind her, yards turning into inches. At the very second she’s about to turn around and fire again, her toe catches in the dirt.

Olivia twists, trying to recover, but momentum wins and she falls hard enough to feel the air rush from her lungs. She scrambles to face it but the creature ploughs into her, its harpy-voice splitting her ears. She brings her gun up again.

And fires.

The creature falls heavily onto her chest. Her diaphragm cramps up and she can only exhale in sputtering coughs. She tries to shove the body aside, but her arms are pinned and the rest of her isn’t cooperating.

“Olivia!” And then Lincoln’s standing over her, face pinched with worry. He grunts as he drags the extra weight of the creature away. He puts his hands on her shins and pushes her knees up with an “Easy. Just breathe. Easy.” He rubs a thumb across her knee, back and forth in a slow arc and she focuses on the rhythm, willing her lungs to relax and accept the shockingly cold air.

Now that she’s not running from it, the creature doesn’t look nearly as threatening. Maybe because the adrenaline is starting to ebb from her system. Or maybe it’s the rumpled tweed sport coat the thing is wearing. It would almost be funny if her ribs hadn’t started to ache.

She’s still lying on her back, watching the sun’s reflection on the bottom of the clouds as it peeks over the horizon when Lincoln says, “That was—“

“Dangerous? Stupid?” she supplies. She looks away. It’s not the first time a partner’s accused her of going off half-cocked, even if it has been a while.

“I was going to say ‘pretty fucking ballsy of you’, but if you prefer ‘stupid’, I can work with that.” His hands haven’t left her knees.

Eventually, they call in the cavalry and the clean-up crew. Reports still have to be filed, so they make their way back to the inn where breakfast and a warm shower await. Not necessarily in that order.

They don’t check out until sometime the next day.

**Author's Note:**

> Not exactly a [kinkmeme](http://fringe-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/) fill, but an addition to one by the lovely [Monanotlisa](http://archiveofourown.org/works/267218). Huge beta thanks to [Kerithwyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kerithwyn/pseuds/kerithwyn).


End file.
